A selfish mother doesn't care that she is harming her child with her smoking.
You'll never find a way to make it all come right,
You just don't know the way through life's great maze.
Could comfort you a child, who's screaming in the night?
And make her darkness into happy days?
You languish in your pain it helps allay your guilt,
But feeling guilty also eases pain.
Your safety's not assured in that tower that you built,
When your fingers have that tell-tale nicotine stain.
You shut her your car, the windows all closed tight,
So pretty, in her dress of silk and lace.
You lit your cigarette and drove into the night,
Blew your second hand lung cancer in her face.
A nice write with a very important message. Both of my parents smoked, and I have no clue as to how much second hand smoke I inhaled. You could scrape the nicotine stains off of the windows and walls. My dad died from lung cancer. I don't know how I avoided samoking cigs, I guess I never got past the getting sick stage. I consider myself lucky.
You certainly don't mince words. But I really like what you write. It seems like young people make serious mistakes with their lives as though it were some kind of "freedom" or rebellion from their poor upbringing. Anyway, if they were brought up poorly, they tend to repeat the same mistakes their parents made, a never-ending cycle of dysfunction.
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Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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